


Weaponless

by luna_plath



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Bisexuality, M/M, Male Slash, Oral Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 00:42:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna_plath/pseuds/luna_plath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon lies on his back, his arm tucked behind his head.  The absence of light makes it feel like they are as close as two people could possibly be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weaponless

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _There are the rooms where we shouldn't meet / Times I wanna screw you up and leave you in the street_

The trouble starts after sparring in the training yard. Normally Jon is paired with Robb, seeing as they’re of an age, and while Theon prefers a bow to a sword he still fights with them occasionally, though his older years have never translated to greater skill. Robb has already given him several good rounds and his limbs are sore in the places where his blows landed, but Jon doesn’t turn Theon down when he takes the place opposite him.

That’s his first mistake. He has never been close with his father’s ward, not the way Robb and Theon are close, even if he’s never felt any jealousy over their friendship. Jon keeps his distance where Theon is concerned, but when Ser Rodrick gives him a sharp nod and Jon knows that he can’t dance around Theon in politeness. This swordfight is a test like any other; is he better than a trueborn heir? Will he ever be?

Beating Theon is not personal, but it’s his second mistake. Ser Rodrick goes over the points where they both need to improve and while Jon tries to take it in he knows that Theon is embarrassed, can see it in the slant of his chin and the puckered look to his mouth. It’s that mouth that concerns him. Theon is always smiling about something, though Jon wouldn’t know it from the expression he’s wearing now.

Ser Rodrick dismisses them for the day and Robb claps him on the back as they head to the armory to store their blunted swords, Theon a few paces behind them. Robb is the only person Jon knows who could be completely deaf to the tension in the air, though he’s grateful for that quality at the moment.

Blunted sword still in hand, Jon spies one of Lady Catelyn’s handmaids, a dark-haired girl from a lesser northern house, and he denies Robb’s invitation to go riding.

“I’m going to swim for a bit,” he says, thinking of Dairine the handmaiden and the hot pools that are usually unoccupied this time of day. 

Robb shrugs and makes for the stables, unflappable as ever. Jon hopes that he catches the girl’s eye as he parts with his brother for the godswood, trying not to get his hopes up. They have kissed a few times and she seems to like him, but Lady Stark keeps her busy, and he is sweaty from sparring anyway.

The godswood is a different world entirely from the rest of the castle and Jon is grateful for it, looking to the unmistakable, massive heart tree in the center of the grove. Firs, sentinel pines, and other evergreens shade him from the sun and block out all sound from Winterfell. A few smooth, mossy stones surround the hot pools, and Jon places his boots, jerkin, and tunic on them, splashing some of the warm water over his face as he kneels at the pool’s edge.

Water drips down his neck and over his chest and shoulders. Before Jon can unlace his breeches and shed his remaining clothes, he turns, hearing the last person he expected.

“Snow,” Theon says, leaning against a white birch tree with his arms crossed. His black hair contrasts with the peeling bark, making him look like a crow among the branches.

“Greyjoy.” Jon looks from Theon to the hot pools, considering. “Are you getting in?”

Theon’s smile flares again, like the whole world is his private joke. It would almost make him handsome, Jon thinks, if there weren’t a cutting undercurrent of arrogance to his features. He pushes off from the tree, stripping down while Jon sheds the rest of his clothes and eases into the steaming water. Closing his eyes, Jon sinks to the stony bottom, the hot water easing the soreness out of his arms.

When Jon breaks the surface he wipes the water from his eyes and sees Theon lounging against the water’s edge.

“Why did you do it?” he asks, looking upwards, his eyes following the lines of the branches overhead. “You beat me while that girl was watching.”

Dairine, Jon realizes. He hadn’t seen her until they’d finished sparring.

“I didn’t know she was there,” he answers truthfully.

“She’s pretty,” Theon says, slipping even more under the water until the dark hair on his chest is just a shadow beneath the surface.

_What do you want me to say, Greyjoy? That I agree, that you’d have just as good a chance with her as ever other girl in Winterfell, that I’ve kissed her and touched her inside the bodice of her dress?_

“She is. Her name is Dairine.”

Jon dips his head under the water one more time, eyes closed, hoping that Theon will change the topic or stop speaking period. Jon has heard all the stories about what Theon gets up to with the girls around Winterfell, knows he’s been with more women than Jon has fingers, though he has wondered if Theon is trying to prove something. Not to him or Robb, certainly, it’s not like either of them have been with a girl, but perhaps to himself.

As Jon is blinking the water out of his eyes Theon hoists himself onto the rocks, letting the water roll over his body and splash over the edge of the pool.

“Just don’t do it again,” he says, leaving.

Jon’s third mistake is glancing up as Theon goes, taking in the sharp angle of his hipbones and the line of black hair that leads below his waist. It occurs to him that Theon isn’t almost handsome—in that moment, he truly _is_.

\----

Things are different, after that. 

Jon has difficulty drawing up the cool, resentful anger he usually feels towards Theon, finding only a curious sort of wonder about the older boy instead. He knows there are men who prefer other men, but until now he’d never thought that Theon might be one of them, never considered that Theon’s preoccupation with women and frequent whoring might stem from some other reason. All his stories and gloating about women take on a new cast in light of that observation.

A few days after swimming together he listens while Theon talks about the different women in Winterfell’s service, standing in front of the archery targets with Robb. Jon notches his bow, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. When Theon points to Dairine, whispers something about her to Robb, Jon cannot find it in himself to feel angry. He looses his arrow and watches it strike the center of the target, quivering with the force of impact. He allows himself a full smile then.

_You can’t hurt me_ , he thinks, drawing another arrow, glancing at Theon out of the corner of his eye. _Stop hiding it. I know._

\----

Dinner is boisterous that night. The Cerwyns have come to Winterfell for matters with his lord father, and Lord Cerwyn brings his son with him, along with men and guards in his service. The hall is full of smoke from the fire and the warmth of many people, making it hard for Jon to judge how much wine he’s had. Robb has had their cups refilled more times than Jon can count, growing bolder after each cup, laughing with him, Theon, and the younger Cley Cerwyn.

Jon swallows a mouth full of wine when Theon puts a hand on Dairine’s elbow, but he sees their exchange for what it is. Dairine blushes and looks directly at Jon, which doesn’t escape Theon’s notice. The girl makes polite excuses to leave and Lady Catelyn is too busy to pay much attention—returning to her conversation with Jonelle, Lord Cerwyn’s only daughter. Theon meets his eyes with a sour look, but Robb leans over to share a joke that Cley has just told him, snatching the moment of tension away.

The younger children have already been led upstairs to their chambers, all except Arya, who stubbornly tugs on Jon’s sleeve until he agrees to take her himself. She laughs when he picks her up and carries her out of the hall, hoping that no one notices the unsteadiness in his movements. It’s several floors until he reaches her bedchamber but Arya settles down easily enough, or she at least pretends to until the sound of his boots fades down the hall.

Jon’s head is sore, the aftermath of drinking too much wine too quickly, and while he’s feeling more in control than when he’d first left the dining hall he certainly doesn’t need to keep drinking with his brother. Torches light his way toward other sets of chambers while he opts for a different path than usual. 

He isn’t sure if Theon remained at dinner with Robb, Cley, and the other lords, but the door to Theon’s chambers is approaching and Jon is feeling emboldened. He bites his lower lip and presses his ear to the gap between the oaken door and its hinges, listening. Hearing footsteps on the cold slate, Jon sees the faintest glow beneath the threshold, just bright enough to stem from a few candles.

Before he can change his mind, Jon grasps the latch and steps through the doorway, shutting the door behind him. The noise makes Theon freeze. He’s undressing for bed, his doublet discarded and his breeches low on his hips. That same line of dark hair is visible and Jon drags his eyes away from it, tries to forget the speculative way he’d traced his hand over that same place on his own body last night, remembering how Theon had looked when he’d gotten out of the hot pools. 

Until that day Jon had never thought of other men, but when he’d tried to sleep that night the image of Theon standing on the rocks with water dripping over his body had welled to the surface. He’d slid his hand down his chest thinking of that fight in the training yard and the way he’d knocked the older boy to the ground and forced him to yield, panting and weaponless.

There had been spots of color on Theon’s cheeks after the fight, red from the exertion, a bruise forming on the edge of his jaw. Now the bruise is a mottled greenish-yellow and Theon’s cheeks are bright from too much wine, but the resemblance is striking.

“Why did you do it?” Jon says. “You don’t actually like her.”

“I don’t,” Theon answers.

Jon takes a careful step forward. Theon is a few inches taller than him, but they’re close in height, even if Jon is broader in the shoulder, and he’s forced to look up to meet his eyes. There are two candles lit—one on the bedside, the other on the table by the window—making the light very dim. Theon’s eyes burn like coals.

“Do you like any of them?” Jon asks.

Silence rings between them and before Jon can say anything else or take a step back Theon kisses him, his mouth warm and insistent against Jon’s own. His first reaction is to push the other boy away, but Theon’s hands hold him in place while his tongue brushes over Jon’s lower lip, and instead of wrenching himself free, he stills. Theon’s lips are soft, though not as full as his own. A lock of Theon’s dark hair brushes against his cheek and Jon feels something flutter deep inside him.

Everything happens quickly after that. Theon pulls them both to the bed, his hands ghosting over Jon’s back and chest, tugging at the buttons of his doublet until Jon is just in his tunic and breeches. A heady, breathless feeling steels over him, making Jon notice every brush of skin against his own. Theon straddles him, pulling off his own tunic and helping Jon remove his, the warmth of Theon’s hot skin making him breath more heavily. Jon can’t deny being aroused, can’t conceal the fact that he’d imagined what it would feel like for Theon to touch him.

Dairine had never touched him below the waist and when Theon’s hands start to tug at the laces of his breeches, his lips on Jon’s neck, all he can think of is _yes yes yes please yes._ Before taking him out Theon rubs his hips against Jon’s, his face buried in Jon’s shoulder. Jon tangles his hand in Theon’s hair, tugging, canting his hips upwards.

Theon makes his way down Jon’s body, kissing the skin just below Jon’s navel while tugging the fabric of his clothes down his hips. He’s painfully hard by now, and when Theon wraps his hand around his cock Jon has to bite down on his lip to keep silent. Jon’s whole body tenses in a silent moan when he feels Theon’s mouth around him, hotter and sweeter than any touch he’s ever felt, his hips innately rocking.

The sensation is sharp and perfect and overwhelming; Jon doesn’t last long. His body feels tightly coiled when he comes, a surge of heat snapping through his limbs. Jon breaths heavily, boneless and sated while Theon ruts against his hip. He swallows Theon’s moan with his mouth and digs his nails into Theon’s back when he comes, still dazed. They’re a tangle of heavy breathing and sweaty limbs, the weight of each other making the bedchamber feel unusually warm. Jon drags himself from the bed and blows out both candles, crawling back in beside Theon in the darkness.

Jon lies on his back, his arm tucked behind his head. The absence of light makes it feel like they are as close as two people could possibly be.

“Tell no one,” Theon whispers, his hand clamped around Jon’s wrist.

He doesn’t need convincing. “I won’t. I promise.”

If Theon’s fingers tangle with his own Jon doesn’t mention it. After everything he’s let Theon do he can hardly deny him that.

 

**fin.**


End file.
